


we caught the tread of dancing feet

by minarchy



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cooking, Explicit Sexual Content, Food, Food Kink, Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He must have been incredibly drunk, Charles decided; because there was no other way in Hell that he would have signed on for such a ridiculous competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we caught the tread of dancing feet

It had started out as a joke; Charles had always been a terrible cook, and Raven had teased him endlessly about it until he'd finally had enough. He'd bought every cookery book he could lay his hands on, and had spent the post-exams, pre-graduation lull in learning everything he could from them. After all, cooking was just chemistry, and recipes were simply formulae, equations that Charles, having learned the base code, could adapt to his will.

Naturally, his first attempts at doing so were a disaster. Clearly, one just did not put nom pla into fisherman's pie. Raven had gagged from the first bite, and had spent the rest of the weekend gleefully mocking him.

But Charles was a scientist, and chalked up every failure to his learning curve. Even Raven couldn't deny that it was an exceedingly steep one, just so long as he stayed away from Thai cooking.

 

He must have been incredibly drunk, Charles decided; because there was no other way in Hell that he would have signed on for such a ridiculous competition. All of the other chefs were actual _professionals_ , who looked appropriately so in their freshly-starched whites and serious expressions. Charles, on the other hand, was having a difficult time not laughing as the judge-come-host announced the task. It was all extremely over-the-top, from the stainless steel 'kitchen arena' that they were in to the host's expressions; still, Charles was determined not to make a fool out of himself, if only to refuse Raven any more ammunition with which to embarrass him at parties. She seemed to have an eidetic memory when it came to his own failures, but a completely loose one when it came to him reminding her of her own.

Pineapple. What the fuck was he supposed to make with _pineapple_?

Okay. It's okay; he's totally got this. He can make – fish: he's done bream and pineapple before, and there was bound to be a sweet white amongst the selection of fish available. He passed a tall, stern man as he rapidly identified the fish available, and registered him as the chef with the speciality in red meat; with any luck, there would be at least a couple more like him, chefs with a very specific food group that wouldn't be able to broaden enough to complete the required dishes.

Red snapper. He was in luck.

He snuck a glance to the competitor to his left; a dark-haired man who seemed to be in a permanent state of flushing – Charles would've suspected brandy, but he was tempted to stereotype vodka – who was scowling at the fruit on his board and muttering darkly in Russian. Excellent. One less person to lose to – Raven would be so disappointed.

Oil spattered into his eyes as he fried his ingredients – he was far too lazy a cook to bother frying everything separately, as the recipes would have required, and he was certain that it wouldn't matter anyway. He was hardly going to place.

He chose the soup (pepper, pineapple, turmeric) because he wouldn't have to blitz it; he was terrible with a hand-held, and almost always ended up with more food on himself that in the pan. Still, he doubted that he could do worse than Sean, the kid who'd told Charles that he was only here to impress a girl, and didn't actually care what happened at the end – Charles had taken comfort from the fact that he wasn't the only pretender in the competition, and couldn't help but smile as he saw Sean flip his pancake. He wasn't even trying.

Finally, alcohol. He was almost certain that Raven would be cringing at his choice of third dish – a drink was hardly the best choice, and Charles wasn't even certain that it was allowed; not only that, but he was gleefully chopping lemongrass, despite the knowledge that Xaviers and Thai mostly definitely did _not_ go together.

The judge gave him a ridiculously patronising look when the timer rang; Charles shared an amused glance with Sean, who'd prepared pineapple fritters, pancakes, and a gammon steak for his three dishes, and happily left the 'arena' to allow the professionals to battle it out.

"Ridiculous competition," he said to himself, washing his hands under the industrial tap.

"It probably wouldn't be, if you hadn't thrown it," said Erik, from behind him.

Charles definitely _didn't_ jump a foot in the air, but he did splash water down his front. He cursed under his breath, shaking the excess water from his hands and turned to face Erik. He was leaning against the fridge; a mass of gleaming, glistening stainless steel that shone under the strip lighting.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Charles said, airily, drying his hands and moving to leave the kitchen. He stank of cooking; it was everywhere, even in his hair, and he really needed a shower. The oil was still itching at his eyeballs; he pressed the heel of his hand into them, watching the phosphenes explode. When he looked up, Erik was directly in front of him.

"You are more than good enough to beat most of those 'chefs' out there," Erik said. Charles couldn't help but notice just how close Erik was. He pushed a finger into Charles' chest, emphasising his words. "Especially that damn Frost woman."

"I'm sure that Emma is lovely," Charles said. "Once you get to know her," he added, on seeing Erik's expression.

"Trust me," Erik said; "she's always that much of a bitch."

Charles laughed, and Erik pressed forward until Charles found his vision filled with grey-blue eyes.

"A drink, then," Erik said, corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "To celebrate your defeat."

 

Despite the invitation, Charles was hardly certain how they had managed to migrate from the bar back to Erik's spartan apartment, with Erik backed against the worktop of his kitchen and Charles licking brandy cream out of his clavicle.

"I really, really want to fuck you," he said, words mumbled against Erik's skin – and _fuck_ , he must be drunker than he thought, because he hadn't meant to say that aloud and now Erik was shivering under his tongue. Charles could feel his burgeoning erection against his thigh, and took that as an invitation to continue. "As in," he said, pausing to suck in Erik's thumb as he swiped it over his lips, and revelling in the dazed look on Erik's face as he did, "I really, _really_ want to fuck you."

"You already said that," Erik said, voice still remarkably controlled considering the way that his hips were making tiny, stuttering thrusts against Charles' thigh.

"I thought the idea worthy of repeat," Charles said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Evidently," Erik said; and Charles just wanted to lick that self-satisfied smirk off his face, wanted to push Erik up against his refrigerator and fuck until he couldn't even form the expression - and he had apparently said at least the latter part of that aloud, because Erik's eyes had blown wide and dark and his fingers dug into Charles' hips hard enough to bruise. Charles grinned, and sucked Erik's tongue into his mouth; and almost bit it, when Erik's hand undid his trousers with remarkable alacrity for someone who'd consumed as much alcohol as they had, and shoved his boxers aside to grip his cock.

Charles had been fantasising about Erik's long fingers for the past three weeks, ever since he had seen him twist chocolate into delicate swirls and freeze them solid with the nitro pump; and he could almost see them in his mind's eye, wrapped around him. He swore, ducked his head to latch his teeth onto Erik's nipple through his thin t-shirt and focussed solidly on not coming until he'd at least got his fingers inside Erik.

His own attempts at unbuttoning Erik's trousers were rather less smooth than Erik's had been, but he managed it after a moment's reconfiguration, realising that Erik's trousers were actually a slide-pin rather than buttoned; and then he was shoving the material down off Erik's hips, groaning as he felt his erection press against Charles' stomach.

"Fuck," he said, removing his mouth from the growing damp patch of Erik's shirt to stare down at his cock, swollen and glistening with precome and fucking _huge_.

"I thought that was the plan," Erik retorted, still snide despite the fact that Charles could see another droplet ooze from the tip as he spoke.

"Fuck," he said, again, unable to look away from it, and then jerking his own hips forward to knock their erections together as Erik's mouth closed around his fingers. Charles had left them against Erik's mouth, and now Erik appeared determined to see if he could get Charles off by simulating a blowjob on his fingers.

Charles pulled them from his mouth, and stared at the line of saliva that remained, caught between his fingertips and Erik's lips, before Erik rubbed against him and enough blood returned to Charles' brain to remind him what he was intending to do with his fingers, now that the use of them had been returned.

He dropped his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the underside of Erik's cock (and damn, he was going to have to do that again at some point, was going to have to learn everything that he could do so that Erik's would make _that_ sound again) before sliding his hand between Erik's legs and pressing on finger against his hole.

Erik's head thudded back against the kitchen cabinets, and he lifted one leg to balance against the opposite worktop as Charles circled his finger and pressed inside.

He couldn't decide whether he wanted to watch his fingers disappear inside Erik, one after another, in and out of the tight, burning heat that locked around his knuckle; or at Erik's face, where he was panting open-mouthed and wide-eyed at Charles.

"Fuck," he breathed, staring at the expression on Erik's face as he crooked his fingers and flicked his prostate with a fingernail. Erik visibly swallowed what Charles could only describe as a keen, and Charles did it again, fucked Erik on his fingers just to see if he could make Erik lose control enough to make ridiculous, delicious noises. He was rutting against Erik's bare thigh, hardly noticing what he was doing as Erik panted and gasped with half-sounds and maybe-words in languages that Charles didn't catch; Erik fucked his hips backwards, downwards onto Charles' hand, rubbing his own erection against Charles' stomach as he did.

"Can you come from this?" Charles asked, wonderingly, rubbing circles around Erik's navel with his thumb. "Could you come from just my fingers?"

Erik swore, harsh and guttural and definitely not in English, and pressed more violently back onto Charles' fingers as he came in hot, wet lines across Charles' stomach; Charles gripped his hip and held him still, fingers still rubbing Erik's prostate as Charles rubbed off against Erik's thigh. Erik banged his head against the cabinets repeatedly as Charles did so, fisting his hand in Charles' hair.

"Too much," he said, voice thick and rough. " _Mein Gott_ , Charles; too much, please –"

Charles jerked roughly, came across Erik's thigh and the drawer behind him, and dropped his head onto Erik's chest, panting. He watched as he still moved his fingers inside Erik, watching the taller man squirm and gasp; until Erik got himself together enough to dig his fingers into Charles' upper arm and push him away. For a moment, Charles' dazed brain registered that he might have pushed Erik a little too far; over-stimulation could easily be interpreted by the brain as pain, he knew; but Erik used the cabinets for support and tugged Charles in to kiss him.

"Please say we get to do that again," Charles said, unable to stop himself from rubbing a thumb across the tight, erect bud of Erik's nipple.

"We'd fucking better," Erik said. "You do realise you promised to fuck me; verbal contracts are binding by law."

Under normal circumstances, Charles would have been a little embarrassed to find himself beaming so ridiculously at anyone; but considering the fact that he'd just made Erik come without actually touching him, he felt he was allowed a little lee way.

"You're going to have a give me an hour," he said. Erik's answering grin was rather more predatory than Charles' had anticipated, and it dragged cold, excited fingers up his spine.

"I'm sure we can find a way to utilise the time effectively."

**Author's Note:**

> title from Wilde's [The Harlot's House](http://greatpoets.livejournal.com/3195164.html):
> 
> We caught the tread of dancing feet,  
> We loitered down the moonlit street,  
> And stopped beneath the Harlot's house.


End file.
